


Stalingrad

by Curreeus



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curreeus/pseuds/Curreeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Germany hears about the defeat of the Italians in Stalingrad, he comes to his ally's aid, worried that he might be too late.<br/>Gift for Tassledown in the 2014 Gerita Secret Santa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalingrad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tassledown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassledown/gifts).



Germany’s bones shudder with the tanks that rumble into Stalingrad.

He hears the screams of his dying soldiers echoing around the inside of his skull; he feels desperation thrumming in his chest from the ones who have been captured and would most likely never see home again.

He can’t stop seeing the thousands of never-ending stares belonging to those who are now dead, burned onto the backs of his eyelids so that he can’t sleep without staring back into the cold, unseeing eyes of Franz, or Gustav, or Heinrich.

But these horrors, these tragedies that are the bread and butter of being a Nation… they are nothing compared to when he hears the news, nothing compared to the way his gut sinks and his heart freezes as cold as Russia’s unrelenting smile.

_Italian Romanian and Hungarian forces overwhelmed and driven into retreat_

The telegram shakes in his hand, his blood running cold at not only the realisation that their reinforcements had been destroyed and the German forces are trapped – he’d known for days now he isn’t going to get this army out of Stalingrad alive – but with the panic that Italy is in danger.

Italy is everything. He has to be alright.

Over the next day, between skirmishes on street corners and the tell-tale whistle and impact of yet more shells, he receives telegrams from both Romania and Hungary explaining how the Russians had attacked and caught them unawares. Despite the clipped tone of the telegrams – such is their nature – he can almost see their hollow eyes and broken bodies, shoulders slumped with the pain of the loss they’d suffered.

But there is no contact from Italy.

Germany waits days for news of him, for his little ally to come waltzing along despite the danger, to skip up to him and bring a little bit of cheer to him in the form of that blinding smile he had, to hug him a little bit too tight and too long, to tell him how scared he’d been during the battle and how glad he was to see Germany again, and oh, I’ll make some dinner and we can have it together Ludwig, wouldn’t that be nice?

Yes. That would be very nice.

But the days wear on, and Germany is left checking and double checking the reports of what armies and battalions and divisions had made it out alive and uncaptured, fitfully shuffling through papers and asking repetitive questions to those in command.

Then the news comes that the 8th Italian army, the army Italy had been stationed with, had suffered catastrophic losses. There had been far too few who’d made it out alive, with most being captured by Russian forces, and both Romania and Hungary hadn’t seen anything of Italy during their own evacuations.

Germany is left with his heart beating too loud in his ears and hands shaking as he stares unseeingly at the ground and meticulously takes his gun apart, cleans it, and puts it back together – then takes it apart, cleans it, and puts it back together again, barely noticing he’s doing so.

He wants to go to the Don River, where the Italians had been posted, to see for himself. He wants – no, _needs_ to know that Italy is alright. But at the same time, around him are his people, who are fighting a losing battle and need him.

He has no idea what to do.

That night he receives yet another telegram, this time from his leader, who sits in a cushy office back in Berlin and yet seems to know what Germany is thinking, hundreds of miles away.

_Hold fast and do not assist the Italian STOP holding our position and capturing the city is of utmost importance_

Germany sees the singular “Italian” and knows exactly what he’s being told.

But perhaps his leader doesn’t know Germany as well as he thought, because he’s telling Germany to leave Italy behind like something disposable that has served its purpose.

And he should know that that was impossible.

He’s done a lot in that man’s name. He’s been thrown into a gas chamber and suffocated a thousand times over and a thousand times again – and he’s been the one to burn the bodies and feel the ash upon his skin; light as snow but with the weight of a thousand deaths he suspects might be innocent.

He’s done a lot of things he wasn’t sure were right but was convinced were for the better; he’s made a lot of “noble” sacrifices in the name of this war.

This will not be another.

**

The rubble crunches under Germany’s boots as he steps through the wreckage of the buildings by the Don River, and his treacherous, shell-shocked mind whispers that perhaps it is not brick and wood, but fragile bones that are crushed beneath his feet.

He shivers, shoves the voice down, and keeps walking.

It had taken him only a few hours to get a truck from the local field hospital and convince the crew to take him to the Don Riverbend, where the Italian army had been placed. Initially the crew was apprehensive, and when he insists it’s to pick up survivors, they aren’t sure why he thinks there are any still out there.

But he’s sure.

Because if Italy is not with the Italian troops that had retreated, and he is not with Russia – Germany would know by now if he were – there is only one place he could be, and that place was here, among the bodies of his fallen men.

Had Germany not been about a century old and hardened to the smell of blood; if he had not known of the silence that comes before a mine exploding and taking three human lives with it in a shower of gore… the battlefield would have probably rattled him.

As it was, it was merely unnerving.

Germany trips over a particularly sharp piece of rubble, stumbling and wincing at the clatter it makes in a place that seemed almost like a graveyard.

For hours he’d been searching, eyes wide open and trained to spot movement, any sort of movement at all, any survivors that had been left for dead – but there was only one survivor that mattered; only one that he was really looking for.

The medical crew in the truck are sitting in and around it, heavily armed and on lookout, watching and waiting for an attack… but the site was eerily deserted.

If Germany didn’t know any better, he’d say that Russia is just playing games with him, letting him get closer to trap him. But Russia doesn’t play games; he just smiles that frozen-tundra smile and breaks his enemies with little preamble. So he’s unsure as to why the place is so deserted.

Germany crests a hill, calling out in a low voice in an effort to let any survivors know he was there without drawing attention to himself, and listening carefully for a reply of any sort, and on hearing none he starts moving on.

Then he hears it.

Quiet, choked, and far too weak for his liking, he hears a faint cry.

“Ludwig…”

His feet are moving before he realises, carrying him to the voice; the voice that belongs to the most important person in the world.

He crests the hill and he lets out his own cry against his will, knees almost giving out from under him at the sight.

There, by the riverbank, there’s a smudge of blue, a hint of shining auburn, and almost overshadowed by the red blood and brown mud and the bodies around him, there he is.

“Italy!”

The word slips out without his permission, voice breaking, and then he’s almost falling down the hill, feet unable to take him fast enough towards Italy, who coughs, chest rattling like a machine gun, and calls out again.

“Ludwig, he – ” A cough. “Ludwig, help!”

The professionalism of Germany falls away from him, and the man who runs and collapses in the mud at Feliciano’s side is Ludwig Beilschmidt, heart threatening to leap out of his chest with panic and having no care for the fact that his pristine uniform is stained with dirt made wet with blood.

He reaches out shaking hands to Feliciano’s face, his shoulders, trying to see some sort of sign in Feliciano’s glazed eyes that he’s alright.

“Feliciano, Feliciano I’m here, I have you.”

Ludwig looks down helplessly at his friend, taking in the fact that almost the entirety of his uniform front is soaked with blood. There are several bullet holes – seven, Ludwig’s treacherously ordered brain tells him – and Feliciano’s chest gurgles dangerously again as he tries to take a breath to speak.

Ludwig lets out a sob, panic flooding his chest as his rationality screams at him that Feliciano shouldn’t be alive; he should have died along with most of the rest of his people in the 8th army. Seven bullet wounds to the chest would spell death for anyone else.

And yet, he’s still lying there, amber eyes dim and yet still blinking, chest full of holes and yet still rising and falling gently.

“Ludwig… you came for me.”

Ludwig raises his shaking hands to his face, not realising that he’s smearing his meticulously slicked back hair and brow with Feliciano’s blood.

“Of course I came, Feliciano – we have to get you back.”

Feliciano shakes his head, eyebrows knit together in worry.

“No, there… some are still out there, Ludwig. They’re crying. Little Giorgiano, and Ludovico, and Carmello, and all the rest…”

Feliciano’s voice is weak; he stops in the middle of the sentence and coughs again, a trickle of blood spattering his chin.

“…they’re crying because they’re hurting. They’re fading, Ludwig. And then there are the others, the others who are so scared because home is so far away and they hurt, and I promised them… Ludwig, can’t we do _anything_?”

Ludwig looks down at Feliciano’s face, streaked with blood and yet looking up at him hopefully – and he hates himself for the answer he has to give.

“Feliciano, I – I’m sorry. We have to leave them. We have to go, if Russia knows I’m here and not with the 6th in the city…”

Feliciano takes a shaky breath, nodding just slightly as a signal that he understands, but Ludwig can see the tears brimming in his eyes, and gently, he scoops his hands under Feliciano’s shoulders, pulling him up gently and embracing him as closely as the wounds in his chest will allow. Only one of Feliciano’s arms is functional enough to raise and half-heartedly return the hug – the other lies limp and useless, shoulder shot through with bullets – but it does, fist clenching weakly in the back of Ludwig’s jacket. Ludwig sighs into Feliciano’s bloody hair.

“I’m sorry, Feliciano. I really am.”

He feels dampness on his shoulder, and hears the tiny sobs Feliciano gives, and he closes his eyes, feeling his own tears trail down his cheeks.

He _knows_ the pain Feliciano is feeling; he’s had weeks of it weighing on a part of him that isn’t physical, like a ghost pain in a body part he hasn’t got. It’s the pain of losing people and the pain of people who are being held captive in a land that isn’t their own and who will perhaps never see home again.

Prisoners of war are something no Nation has ever dealt with well.

But the knowledge that it is _Feliciano_ feeling this brings a whole new facet of horror to it; dear, sweet Feliciano should never be made to feel this pain, should never be made to feel anything but happiness.

He puts his ear closer to Feliciano’s mouth when he realises that he’s speaking.

“I promised them. I promised them we’d get out. I took the bullets for them and told them to run, but they didn’t run fast enough and he got them, then he shot me again, just to make sure I couldn’t get away, and it _hurt_ , Ludwig, but not as much as knowing I’d failed them, and now we can’t even go to get them... what will I tell their mamas, and their bellas, and their bambini?”

Gently, he pulls back from Ludwig, and the German’s heart pulls at the way his frame lacks any energy and his eyes are dim, despite the tears.

Then Feliciano speaks again, voice quiet, but loud enough to shatter worlds.

“Ludwig… we aren’t going to win the battle, are we?”

Ludwig’s breath sticks in his throat and he remembers that Feliciano doesn’t know yet, doesn’t know that the state of the soldiers that survived is so dismal that his leaders are trying to keep the retreat a secret from the Italian populace. As though that would make it better.

But his silence says everything, and Feliciano nods once, resigned, then drops his head back to Ludwig’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Ludwig.”

Ludwig sighs, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek to Feliciano’s head and swaying a little.

“No, I’m sorry.”

He smooths his hand up and down Feliciano’s mud coated back, and when he feels the breaths even out as much as they can, he pulls back and looks at Feliciano’s face, eternally aware that they were on enemy territory and need to move as soon as possible.

“Can you walk?”

Feliciano looks up at Ludwig, gaze slightly unfocussed, and shakes his head. He points to a section of mud that must be where his leg is and sighs.

“I think one of my legs is broken. It got shot and I heard the bone crack.”

Ludwig nods, swallowing the horror and rage he feels at the fact that Feliciano has experienced this, and the strange, matter of fact way he states it.

But Feliciano is centuries older than him, he’s probably experienced such things before; and there is little Ludwig can do but bring him back to the truck and send him back to safety.

He scoops the limp little body up in his arms and carries him up the bank, then settles the shivering Feliciano down in the back of the truck, wrapping him in a blanket and only looking up at the personnel once he knows Feliciano is as settled as he can be.

The doctor begins to do checks on Feliciano, and the driver looks at Ludwig and frowns.

“Sir, are there any others?”

He looks out across the rubble, at the dozens of bodies he can see just where he’s standing. He looks back at Feliciano, with his seven bullet wounds, shattered shoulder, and destroyed leg, the only thing keeping him alive being the spirit of his nation.

He shakes his head.

“There’s no-one else.”

He nods; he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the truck, his crew clambers inside the vehicle, and Ludwig settles inside, Feliciano’s head on his knee.

Feliciano looks up at him, eyes glazed and feverish.

“Ludwig, are we going home? Will we be there soon?”

Ludwig strokes Feliciano’s forehead, humming softly, ignoring the stares of the other medical staff who’ve taken stock of Feliciano’s injuries and realised that he shouldn’t be alive and are now staring at him with a mix of horror and fear.

Ludwig grips Feliciano’s good hand and squeezes it.

“Yes Feliciano, you’re going home. Sleep – I’ll watch over you.”

Feliciano looks up at him, eyes wide and trusting, and he gives a small nod, letting his eyes slide closed after making sure that Ludwig’s hand is tucked in his. He sighs, slowly, chest rattling, and when Ludwig smooths his thumb across the back of Feliciano’s hand the tiny frown marring the cherubic face smooths itself out.

Ludwig sighs shakily.

_My Feliciano, my brave Feliciano… how could I have done this to you?_

**

_“Giuseppe, run!”_

_“Not without you, we can’t!”_

_Feliciano grabs Giuseppe’s shoulders, shaking the boy who was too young to be here, who still had so much of his life left to live._

_“Giuseppe Rossi, your mama wants you home alive so she can see your seventeenth birthday. I am ordering you to run, now!”_

_The boy’s eyes are wide and his face is pale, and when Feliciano gives him a shove he nods, turning to run, and Feliciano senses the danger; throws himself across the boy and takes the fresh raking of machine gun fire all along his front, screaming as the bullets tear him to pieces._

_But the boy was safe… the boy was safe and that was what mattered…_

Feliciano gasps, sitting up so suddenly he almost throws himself out of bed, and wincing as the movement pulls at the stitches in his front, taking in gulps of air as though he’s a drowning man.

And he supposes he is, in a way – it is too easy to drown in memories, or pain, if he let himself.

He looks around the darkened field hospital, taking in the beds full of feverishly sleeping soldiers and dimmed lanterns, and he relaxes slightly, lying back down on his pillows.

His chest still hurts, his shoulder aches and his leg throbs dully, but for him, for now… the battle is over.

He feels a weight on his leg, and looks down to spy a blonde head of hair that is messier than the owner would like, were he awake.

Feliciano smiles as Ludwig mutters something in his sleep – from the little German Feliciano speaks, it seems to be something about a dog using the oven. He shifts his head a little on Feliciano’s thigh, then relaxes back into sleep. Feliciano stifles the urge to laugh.

Ludwig always looks peaceful when he’s sleeping – this is something that he’s observed many times. His hair falls easily out of its severe style, his piercing, electric blue eyes are closed, his face is slack and relaxed, and his hand is warm and soft where it clutches Feliciano’s on the bedcovers. He looks almost… young.

Too young to be waging war on the world for a madman he’d made the mistake of trusting.

Feliciano smiles wistfully, slipping his good hand slowly out of Ludwig’s grip, lifting it to Ludwig’s hair instead and stroking through the golden strands, marvelling at how soft they always were. With a snuffling noise, Ludwig stirs, lifting his head from Feliciano’s thigh and slowly slipping his eyes open to take in the fact that his charge was awake.

A rare smile graces his stern features, and Feliciano feels his heart lift a little.

“Oh, Feliciano, you’re awake. Are you feeling any better?”

They both know it’s a silly question – but Feliciano makes a show of pursing his lips and looking to the roof of the tent in thought anyway.

“Well, I feel warmer. And less dirty. And you’re here, so I feel much safer. I suppose that’s good, isn’t it?”

Ludwig blushes a little, and Feliciano smiles a little wider, feeling better already.

Suddenly, there’s a rustling sound from something over the edge of the bed, and Ludwig gives a start, leaning over and reaching for something, mindful of the fact that there were others sleeping and keeping his voice down.

“Oh, I almost forgot… I brought you something to make you feel better. I was going to give it to you when I got here, but then you were sleeping and I thought it wasn’t wise to wake you.”

He lifts a covered basket onto his lap, settling it and then lifting the covering away.

Feliciano lets out a little cry of happiness when his cat leaps swiftly out and onto the covers, mewing quietly, then snuggling up to her owner. The Italian's good hand moves down to stroke his pet and he smiles when she starts purring.

“Oh Ludwig, thankyou! Did you charm a nurse so she’d let you bring her in?”

Ludwig blushes, looking down and away and rubbing the back of his neck.

“I uh… I snuck her in. None of the personnel know she’s here. But the presence of a pet often improves mood and general mental health, so I thought she might help you feel a little better – ”

He’s cut off by Feliciano putting a finger on his lips and smiling disarmingly at him.

“Then she’s my little secret. Thankyou, Ludwig.”

Ludwig just blushes a little harder and smiles, and Feliciano finds himself thinking that he doesn’t want Ludwig leaving, ever, not if he has to go back to a battle, because this soft and sleepy Ludwig is fragile and breakable and Feliciano needs him here.

But… he’s already had his chance to protect Ludwig, and it had come crashing down when Russian forces had swept in and forced him into retreat.

Feliciano’s smile fades at the thought and he lowers his hand, the fingers of his bandaged hand burying themselves softly in the fur of the cat sleeping beside him.

“Ludwig, I’m sorry.”

Ludwig looks up, frowning, and Feliciano sighs, clenching his good hand into a fist on top of the covers.

“If I’d just been stronger, you wouldn’t be here. Your people are dying in Stalingrad without you while I lie here, taking all your attention because I couldn’t hold out against Russia myself, and I… I’m sorry.”

Feliciano’s gaze is trained on the bed-sheets, and he almost misses Ludwig’s shocked expression, almost doesn’t expect the firm embrace he suddenly finds himself in.

“No, no Feliciano, don’t be sorry.”

Ludwig pulls back briefly, fixing Feliciano with that piercing blue gaze as though trying to make him understand with just his eyes, because he doesn’t know what to say, and Feliciano knows that. Words of affection and affirmation don’t come from Ludwig that easily – but he tries.

“Feliciano, you… you might not feel brave. You might not feel strong. But I gave you this for a reason.”

The hand that’s not holding Feliciano’s comes up to gently press the Iron Cross that is still, despite everything, hanging around Feliciano’s neck. Feliciano looks down and back up, eyes wide. The corner of Ludwig’s mouth turns up in a tiny smile, and he continues.

“You might not have the numbers or military strength that Gilbert or I have, but you’re so important, so very important. I get so wrapped up in this war that my mind almost feels like it’s just tanks and guns and cold steel, and you… you bring the warmth back.”

Ludwig’s thumb swipes across the back of Feliciano’s good hand, and that sharp gaze breaks with Feliciano’s and looks down at it, bashful.

“That’s why I had to come find you, Feliciano, because you’re so important. Don’t ever be sorry for being important.”

Feliciano just stares at Ludwig, eyes wide, jaw slack. Ludwig never said such things – he’d been hard pressed to get Ludwig to admit he liked Feliciano, sometimes.

But danger has a way of exposing exactly what’s most important – and as Ludwig looks shyly up from their linked hands, Feliciano grins, scaring off the German’s gaze so that it skitters across the bed-sheets again.

There’s a moment of silence where they both just listen to the wind outside and the breathing and coughing of the sleeping soldiers around them.

Then, Feliciano speaks, his voice soft.

“Ludwig, after this war is over, let’s take a holiday. Just the two of us.”

Ludwig looks up again, the faint smile growing a little stronger as he makes eye contact with Feliciano, who smiles brightly.

“You can forget about your guns and fighting, and we can bake cakes and cook and play with your dogs… no war, or politics, just us. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Ludwig smiles faintly, gaze wistful, and Feliciano knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Nothing would be that simple when the war ended. Either they would win, and they’d have a new world order to establish, or they’d lose.

Feliciano didn’t want to think about what the Allies would do to Ludwig if they lost.

But here, in a darkened field hospital tent with Ludwig’s hand warm in his, the vague promise of a “someday” where they wouldn’t have to fight and suffer sounded like heaven.

Ludwig smiles at the blankets on Feliciano’s bed, his voice soft.

“I would love to, Feliciano.”

For a moment they just sit there, hands clasped like schoolchildren, knowing that they have no time for such things as just sitting and yet feeling like they have all the time in the world. It must be the early hours of the morning, but neither of them feel tired, and Feliciano feels like he could watch the candlelight on his bedside dance on Ludwig’s sharp features for hours.

But then Ludwig winces, and Feliciano knows that the battle in Stalingrad is still raging, and Ludwig can feel every second of it.

He’ll have to return to it soon, before Russia realises that he’s gone and his leaders wonder where he is.

They both know that Ludwig has to go; there’s no reason saying it. That just makes it more concrete. So Ludwig rises, straightening his jacket, collecting the basket that he’d hidden the cat in and holding out a hand questioningly to the sleeping feline.

Feliciano shakes his head, a sly smile creeping onto his face.

“No, you can leave her with me. I’ll keep her hidden, don’t you worry.”

Ludwig shrugs, withdrawing his hand and shuffling a little, as though unsure whether he should say something more or just leave.

Feliciano makes the decision for him.

“Ludwig, before you go, come here – I have something to give you.”

He makes a little “come hither” gesture with his good hand, and Ludwig leans over, brows furrowed quizzically. Feliciano smiles gently, his voice soft.

“A long time ago, I told someone that at my house there’s something you give someone you like, especially when they’re leaving you. So I’m going to give it to you now, as a promise.”

Ludwig frowns in confusion, clearly having no idea as to his meaning, and Feliciano forgoes an explanation and just leans forward and pecks Ludwig on both cheeks.

He pulls back, smiling at Ludwig’s red cheeks and wide eyes.

“That’s for good luck,” he whispers, slowly bringing a hand up to brush away the errant bangs from Ludwig’s eyes.

Then, he casts a glance around the room, determining that everyone in the tent was asleep before he leans forward and presses a kiss to Ludwig’s lips.

It lasts only for a few seconds, but when he pulls back they’re both breathing as though it’s been hours.

“And that? That was to tell you I love you.”

Ludwig’s eyes are wide and blinking owlishly, and it seems to take him a few seconds to come back to reality and make eye contact again. He shakes his head and stutters a little, trailing off when Feliciano links his fingers with Ludwig’s again and pulls the hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it.

“I… I…”

Feliciano just smiles. Ludwig swallows, takes a breath.

“I love you too, Feliciano.”

They both stare at each other, hardly daring to breath, to break the moment – but then a soldier in the bed next to Feliciano’s shifts in his sleep, muttering about “damn potatoes” and they both look away and giggle a little bit.

Ludwig shakes his head, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Feliciano’s forehead.

“You should sleep.”

He picks up his basket, tucking it under his arm and looking down at Feliciano as though he’s the most precious thing in all of Germany, or even the world.

“But the first thing, as soon as this battle is over… I’ll come to see you first, I promise.”

Feliciano freezes, the words echoing a distant chord in his memory – but before he can attribute them to anything, Ludwig has smiled one last smile, then turned and left.

Feliciano watches him all the way out the tent, knowing that this time tomorrow Ludwig will probably have been injured in some way, and that by the end of the battle he will know what the cold sheen to Russia’s gaze before he shoots him looks like.

But, if only just for now, Ludwig is safe and happy, and Feliciano’s hand still feels warm from Ludwig’s touch; his heart is pained with loss, but it is a little warmer than it was before he woke up.

So maybe, just for now, everything’s alright.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Because it may be unclear – the theory behind the use of human names here is that the nation name is the occupation, like calling someone “doctor” or “professor”. The human names are private nicknames used between friends and siblings. Germany is very professional and likes to use the Nation names as much as he can, whereas Italy is a bit more informal.  
> 


End file.
